If writing a poem could bring you Into existence, I'd write one now, Filling the stanzas with more Skin and tissue than a body needs, Filling the lines with speech. I'd even give you your mother's Close-bitten nails and light-brown eyes, For I think she had them. I saw her Only once, through a train window, In a yellow field. She was wearing A pale-coloured dress. It was cold. I think she wanted to say something.